Out of Azkaban
by neonorne
Summary: AU. After 8 years of hell, someone comes to Sirius' cell and tells him he is wanted at the Ministry of Magic. Sirius struggles to get his Dementor-addled brain around what is happening to him. Also featuring Remus, Peter. Ch.4 now added. T for language
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: _Universe and characters belong to J.K. Rowling. I just borrow them for my dreams. I make no money off them. _

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**A/N** This story was originally only three chapters. But I have now decided to continue it. The first three chapters are re-posted along with the uploading of the new fourth chapter, because I have done some minor changes to the disclaimer and the formatting. The content is the same. Also, since this is now the first part in a possible longer series, I've decided to add section titles. **  
**

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**PART ONE**

**THE HEARING  
**

**ONE**

The sobbing and the wailing fades. (I never sobbed and wailed. But I always hear sobs and wails.) They are retreating. Someone is coming.

I don't get up anymore. To stare them down. Put on some sorry show of defiance. That's long gone. I look at the texture of the wall. I notice every crack, every bump. It's a blessing to notice them. An awakening.

I savour the clearing of my mind. The thin prickle of energy seeping into my limbs. I know it won't last.

The clammy Dementor fog inside my head never entirely lifts. But there is a clearer focus now. I hear the key in the corridor door.

Only me in this corridor. What do they want this time? Clean my cell? Feed me?

My filth is cleared from outside my cell by some house elf magic. I've seen them. The prison elves. Food is pushed underneath the bars by the human guards who sometimes check on me, and the (sometimes) emptied bowl Accioed out again.

Keeping time is hard in here: The light is from gas lamps in the corridor and it never changes. But no, I don't think it's time for cleaning or feeding. My stomach is not bothering me at the moment. There's no sickening stink in my nose from my own waste.

So what do they want? Check on me? Let some big shot who's bribed the human guards come and stand near the bars to goggle at me, the mad animal?

I never knew there were people who would want to do that. Come to Azkaban and get a kick from its grossest. Get turned on by a close view of this excitingly filthy and dangerous criminal inside my cage of a cell.

But people do want that. Oh, they do. Someone must have made a small fortune off me by now.

I know what they think. I hear their whispers at the bars. Their bloody _panting! _I swear it sometimes sounds as if they're jerking it off while staring at me. Then they'll be off to brag at their trendy parties: I saw the demon. He looked _completely_ insane!

Yeah. That's what we do in here. Insane.

I'm so tired. Whenever the Dementors are gone, I get to sense how tired I am. I support my forehead against the wall and close my eyes.

I don't know what I want the most. The freak show to be over fast or the Dementors to stay away long.

They don't stop at the door to goggle. They open the door.

They're opening the door to my cell.

I don't open my eyes. I don't turn my head. But I hear it: the key in the lock, the screeching of the hinges.

What do they want with me? This can't be good.

'Mr. Black?' a voice says in my cell. Tentative. Almost polite. 'Mr. Sirius Black? Are you awake? You're wanted at the Ministry – we've come to escort you there.'

* * *

I sit at the bottom of a deep and vast room, dimly lit by torches. There are too many people in here. Hundreds of witches and wizards sit on benches rising in levels around the walls. They're staring down at me, all of them. Leaning towards each other, whispering.

The sound is like a wind in the room. It wakes up a faint image somewhere in my mind. Something moving. Something green.

Leaves. I remember leaves. Boughs moving in the wind, making green leaves rustle. That's it; that's what the sound in this room is like.

But it's not. It's the sound of people, whispering about me, staring at me, and they are not my friends. None of them. Not anymore.

I want to close my eyes against them. But that may be dangerous. I need to watch.

I want to see when they do whatever they mean to do to me. If I'm going down, I'm not going down oblivious.

They didn't escort me here, those almost polite people who entered my cell. No matter what they said they would do. Dementors did that.

Those people escorted me no longer than to the quarters of the human guards. Who magicked my ragged prison robes off my back and pushed me stark naked under a shower. Who used their wands to take my beard away and shorten my hair to shoulder length before they threw some old, but clean, black robes at me.

I'm ashamed to remember it. I struggled to put on those robes under the hard gaze of the guards. I struggled even more with the ill-fitting leather boots they brought me next. My Dementor-addled brain barely recognised what they were at first. My hands needed time to properly remember where they fit.

When they brought me out of the shower room, the Azkaban guards had a yelling-fest with the outside people who took me out of my cell.

'Black is still a top security prisoner!' the guards yelled. 'Show us an authorised document stating otherwise!'

The yelling ended when the guards called the Dementors. Who brought me here – by boat. I think. And maybe some carriage or other. I'm not sure. The Floo after that? You don't really notice things when Dementors travel before and after and beside you, holding your arms.

I didn't really notice anything before I was seated here, feeling the cold Dementor fog only slowly leave my brain. Watching them glide across the floor and disappear behind a small door in the far corner to my left.

Discovering all the people staring down at me.

I don't know what I'm doing here. What place this is. I try to shift in my chair, but I can't.

Golden chains encircle my arms and hold them tight against the armrests of my chair. I can't move one inch. All I can do is turn my head, or kick my feet out.

Which I'm not going to do. I remember my name. I know who I am. I am not going to show them Sirius Black doing anything as futile, as humiliating as that.

I stare straight ahead, up at the people on the nearest benches. There must be a reason why they have me facing these people in particular.

I am so tired. So tired. But the chains hold me up. And the Dementors are gone. Far gone. I don't sense them at all.

That has never happened before, in all the long years I've spent in my cell at Azkaban.

I am waking up.

My thoughts are slow and laborious. But I can hold my focus. I start to take notice. I recognise what I see the moment I see it.

The fifty-something people in front of me are on the highest benches in the room. Their robes are plum-coloured with an elaborately worked silver 'W' on the left-hand-side of the chest –

W –

Wizengamot.

Bloody hell. Have they brought me here for a _trial_?

After all this time?

An open trial it seems, with all these people around all the walls, staring down at me.

Someone is talking from up high. Seated in the middle of the highest bench.

'I think it is reasonable to assume Black did not quite understand – or even hear before,' he says. 'We need to take the Dementor effect into account here. We must allow Mr. Black some time to recover before we demand any answers from him.'

I know this man.

Dumbledore.

Is the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot?

Yes. I knew that.

Dumbledore believes _I'm_ the filthy traitor. He's with the Hit Squad that arrested me and threw me in Azkaban to rot. If not, he would have had me out of there a long time ago.

Why does he want to showcase me here? Isn't the goggling visitors in Azkaban enough?

After his little speech, the whispering in the benches dies down a bit. I look at him and his neutral face steadies my brain. Because I know that face.

But it does me no good to remember it. It makes everything seep back into my mind: The times when this man looked at me in trust. My chest begins to ache from a grieving pain keener than Dementor fog.

Because now I am fully aware of all the good things I've lost and I must not remember anything else.

James' face. Laughing at me like a brother. Next to him is Peter, admiring me.

And now I do look down after all. This will be much crueler than I thought.

'Mr. Black?'

It's Dumbledore addressing me. It's surprising how such a soft voice carries so well in this huge dungeon of a room. I look up at him again.

'Do you know where you are?'

I nod. I do. Now.

But he spells it out for me nonetheless. Tells me this is courtroom 10 at the Ministry of Magic. I am brought here in front of the Wizengamot because they want to investigate the evidence concerning my alleged crimes in the last war.

My _alleged_ crimes. He put a slight, but very distinct accent on that word. I heard it. I noticed.

He starts to name all the important ones present: Head of the law department who will lead the interrogations, secretaries and undersecretaries, scribes and whatnot. Their names mean nothing to me and they don't stick. I don't look at them. I look at him, trying to read his face.

But it's still neutral, revealing nothing.

There is a pause after the last name mentioned. We look at each other. They are almost silent in the benches.

Then he nods towards a woman with short grey hair and a monocle standing at his right. She nods back and addresses me.

'You are Sirius Orion Black?' she says.

So the game begins.

I nod.

'Please speak up for the Wizengamot. Are you Sirius Orion Black?'

I try to find my voice, never used for I don't know how long.

'Yes,' I croak. 'I am Sirius Black.'

Omitting the name of my father. But she doesn't comment on that.

I don't recognise my voice as mine. It sounds like the voice of a ghost. But my voice, too, carries well in the bleak air of this room. Maybe there's some magic involved.

The witch says something about examining the accusations against me, to decide whether they warrant a trial.

This is not a trial?

They haven't decided whether they want to try me yet?

The witch continues to say something about my rights according to some laws and charters of the Ministry of Magic and the Wizengamot. It's all in legal lingo, too advanced for my fucked up, sluggish brain.

But she doesn't seem to expect me to follow. Or care very much if I do.

It's all form, this.

'On the night of October the 31th, 1981, the Dark wizard known as Lord Voldemort broke into the home of James and Lily Potter in Godric's Hollow and had them killed – '

My heart starts to pound as if it wants to beat me up from within. My vision darkens. At the back of my mind the sound of wails and sobs is returning. And now I get to realise with a clearer mind who it is.

It was never me who sobbed and wailed next to their dead bodies. It was Lily's baby boy. My godson. Harry.

I don't need this.

'Mr. Black?' the witch says.

I look up and realise my whole body is trembling. I don't have the energy needed to command my tongue. I think she's been calling on me to answer her a couple of times already. But I'm not sure I know what her question was.

'Perhaps, Madam Bones, you need to rephrase the charges in a simpler manner, one element at a time, to ensure that Mr. Black will understand,' I hear Dumbledore say. 'Mr. Black has, after all, been under Dementor influence for the full length of eight years and three months at this point.'

'Quite,' the witch says, not looking at him. Her voice is deeper than his. 'Miss Ackerley?'

A young witch at the very end of the front bench puts down a purple-feathered quill and stands up.

'Madam Bones?'

'I believe the guards of our holding cells carry chocolate on them, when they need to deal with prisoners escorted by Dementors,' the grey-haired witch says. 'Please have one of them get some for Mr. Black. I need to know he understands the charges before I ask him how he pleads.'

The young witch gets up and leaves the room. There's a flurry of movement, a murmur in the benches.

The young witch returns through the small door in the corner, followed by a stern-looking, elderly wizard. He comes across the room to stand over me, holding out something in his right hand. I stare down at it. It's a small, dark brown bar.

My brain is still slow. I still hear the baby wailing. I don't know what this is.

'Take it and eat,' the man says. 'It's chocolate. Will do you good. Here.'

He lifts it to my mouth. The smell makes my stomach churn. But it somehow agrees with my brain. It somehow mellows the screams.

Chocolate.

I take a bite. I chew and swallow and fight to keep the sick down. This rich, fat taste in my mouth is nothing like the prison food of Azkaban. My stomach is no longer fit for this kind of thing.

But then there is an odd sensation of warmth in the sick, spreading from my stomach out into my limbs. It makes them ache, as if I ought to hear my joints creak. The back of the chair starts to hurt the knots of my spine. It's seat starts to hurt my sitting bones.

It dawns on me that I must be very thin. I have no flesh to cushion my bones.

The sensation spreading in my body is not warm when it reaches my brain. It's cool. The wailing in my mind start to fade; the room around me widens.

I take more bites. I chew very carefully before I swallow to be sure the sick stays down. Now I feel my teeth ice and ache. They must be rotten.

But my brain clears. At least some. I am too tired and I ache all over, body, soul and mind. But I can think.

It won't last. They want me to think only so I shall understand what they say when they judge me and send me to hell. Forever. This time making it official.

But I'm still grateful.

The wizard guard patiently stands to offer me the chocolate, waiting till I have downed it all and kept it down before he retreats from my side and leaves the courtroom.

The grey-haired witch in the high bench nods down at me. Madam Bones.

'Mr. Black,' she says. 'I will now present you with the charges against you. Do you understand what this means?'

'Yes,' I croak.

Oh yes. I understand.

'The charges against you consist of three different allegations. Accusations that is. I will present you with one at a time. Please answer truthfully to each question with a simple yes or no. Please let me know if you do not fully understand any or all of the questions. Do you understand what I just said?'

'Yes.'

'Very well. Now answer my first question truthfully. Were you, Sirius Orion Black, at any point in the last war a spy for Lord Voldemort?'

A spark of anger lights up inside. Joined by a ghost of contempt at all the hushed gasps I hear around the room as she spells out the hated name.

This small boost of energy is a blessing. It gives me the strength to glare. There's a hint of pride in my croaking voice when I state my answer. I hope they all hear that.

'No.'

Now a hushed whisper makes its round in the benches.

'Did you at any point reveal the hiding place of James and Lily Potter to the enemy?'

'No.'

'On the 1st of November 1981, did you kill 12 Muggles with one blasting spell and wound 16?'

'No.'

Madam Bones just nods. The whispering in the benches doesn't get any louder. She proceeds to recite in a detached, formal voice:

'Let the record show that Mr. Sirius Black has claimed innocence to all charges made against him before the Wizengamot.'

Something is off about this. Yes. I do claim innocence to those charges. But -

Peter. She didn't mention Peter. Why am I not charged with the murder of Peter?

I would have murdered him. I wanted to. But he was quicker. _Peter_ bested _me_ in a duel –

Because I never expected him to do what he did. Cast a spell behind his back instead of aiming one at me. Never thought _Peter_ had it in him to kill a dozen innocent bystanders in order to outsmart me and get away.

Even though I knew he had gone Dark, I never saw that one coming.

'The Wizengamot is now ready to hear the witnesses,' the grey-haired witch says. 'But I suggest Mr. Black is first given some rest away from the Dementors, and some basic medical attention, by someone at least on a Mediwitch level. I fear that he may otherwise not be able to pay full attention to the testimony given, and as a result may not understand how to defend himself in front of this court.'

The wind of whispers in the room before was nothing compared to the storm now rising in the benches. But the grey-haired witch – Madam Bones – is unperturbed. She addresses someone in the benches behind me.

'Mr. Scrimgeour, I trust you will see to it that my orders are fully carried out, with all the necessary precautions the security levels of this case demands,' she says. 'Just make sure the Dementors have no more direct contact with Mr. Black until a verdict is reached by this court. The Wizengamot will now take a three hour recess. Thank you.'

* * *

They take me to a small room next to the hall of the court. The Dementors are at the other side of the door. I sense them. Their cold, their fog. But at least the door is closed and they are not here. I appreciate the difference.

They bring me to a soft couch and tell me to lie down. It doesn't hurt my pelvis bones or my spine. Pillows are stacked under my head. Three or four of them have their wands out and their eyes fixed on me at all times.

They are Aurors. I recognise at least one face. There are at least five or six of them. They don't talk. Not to me, nor among themselves. But I'm really too tired to look at them much.

Then a Mediwitch arrives. Or maybe she's a Healer. She orders everyone to back off and fusses over me something awful.

I don't like her sighs and huffs and complaints. She talks non-stop under her breath about the horror of Azkaban, the shame of the Dementors and I don't think she looks me in the eye even once, save for examination.

But she knows her healing. She uses a wand, and potions, and pads to place on my joints and chest and forehead. Her wand stops the aching in my teeth. Her pads are steeped in strange smelling concoctions that ease the aching in my body and head. Her potions taste of chocolate and something bitter besides, but do not make me sick. They clear my mind.

When she leaves and one of the Aurors tells me to get up and come with them back to the court, I don't sway when I stand up. My head doesn't swim. I will never be more lucid than this for the rest of my life. They will bring me back to face my doom.

Two of the Aurors take me by my arms and lead me back to courtroom 10. The others follow around me and behind me. The Wizengamot is ready and waiting and so are all the spectators.

But as I sit down in front of the high benches, the chains on the armrests of my chair do not move to restrain me. There's a cushion on the seat. The whispering in the benches feels different somehow.

The grey-haired, monocled witch again stands up.

'The Wizengamot is now in session,' she says. 'We will hear the first witness in the examining of the charges against Mr. Sirius Black. I call Mr. Remus Lupin.'

Remus. Will witness against me.

I don't turn my head as I hear him come; I look straight ahead. I would have recognised those steps anywhere. Even in Azkaban, with a hundred Dementors between us.

But you are weary, Moony. You drag your feet. Do you even have a limp?

I know who you are. James and I thought _you_ were the spy. So what can _I_ ever say against you.

Just make it short. I forgive you already. I forgave you anything you might ever do to me a hundred years ago, when we were still a pair of idiot kids at a school.

So it's alright. It will always be alright.

I hear Remus stop to stand at a distance on my right.

'State your name for the court,' the witch says.

She moves you down her list of formalities and I get to hear your voice.

Your address is no longer the same. 'Unemployed,' she makes you say while this crowd of many-hundred-something spectators is listening.

And then she forces you to stand in front of all the whispering benches and admit that you are a werewolf. Explain to her all the humiliating precautions you go through every month to make the public safe.

I hear as everyone in the benches whips up a nasty whispering wind about you. There's a smoldering anger started somewhere in my groin.

But I can't stand up to defend you. You don't want my defense anymore. Your old friend, the mad mass-murderer.

'The Wizengamot declares you worthy of being heard as a trustworthy witness, in spite of your condition,' the grey-haired witch says. 'Let the records show that on the date of this hearing, the full moon is still twenty days away. Now please relate to this court as truthfully as you can what _you_ know of the recent events pertaining to the charges against Mr. Black.'

Your voice is so slow, so subdued and tired, Moony. So alien. So well known.

What happened to you to give you such a voice? Or is it because you must witness against me? Don't you do it willingly?

It's hard for me to follow what you say. You speak without interruptions and there are some whispers. But not enough to be disturbing. It's my brain that is still too slow.

My head gets dizzy, my thoughts woolen from trying to understand. I ponder over the few facts I do get. I don't understand how they relate to me. To the charges against me.

The deaths of James and Lily – but you don't talk about them at all.

Mr. Weasley. Arthur Weasley. Invited you to a Christmas party, just because – he bumped into you and you had nowhere else to go.

Don't talk like that about yourself in front of the court, Moony. Show them your pride. These people are not your friends. They think you're a werewolf freak and want to lock you up.

So he said you could come for old time sake –

Old time's sake? They were never in the Order, the Weasleys?

Molly. Yeah. The Prewett brothers? Wasn't their sister called Molly Weasley?

Yes. We made a makeshift infirmary at their house once. After that battle at the Muggle village. I remember now. They had a bunch of kids.

Or was that someone else?

They were not in the Order. But maybe we did know them at one point.

Or – _you_ knew them. Everyone likes _you_, Moony. But why are you talking to the court about these Weasley people? How come _they_ have any evidence against me?

Must be something Peter planted.

You sat in their living room on Christmas Day. Hidden in a corner.

Why in a corner? Why hidden? Didn't you just say you were invited?

The kids came in from playing in the snow outside and they didn't see you.

A Christmas party at the Weasleys. I don't get it.

Snow.

Snow outside. Winter.

Is it winter now?

Percy and his pet rat. Sounds like a children's book.

I don't remember any Percy. Didn't Molly Prewett – Weasley – have a son called Charlie? Or was it Bill?

...

!

But.

But.

Don't tell them that. You shouldn't tell them that. The secret.

Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs.

Moony?

You knew he was an Animagus at school. Peter.

You're telling them the secret about _us_?

It was your secret, too. We did it to be with you.

Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs.

And James' secret. You don't want to tell them about _James_!

Let them add Padfoot to my charges if that's why you're here. But don't tell them about Prongs!

Moony, Wormtail –

You're moving on. You didn't tell them about Padfoot and Prongs.

You told them about you and Peter. But not me and James. Why...?

Moony, Wormtail –

You performed the Revealing Spell.

In the corner.

From the corner.

Revealing Spell?

They saw him.

Arthur Weasley works for the Ministry and saw him, too.

On the table. You crashed the table.

He crashed the table.

You stunned him.

She stunned him. Molly.

Percy.

Table.

Percy screamed. Smashed all the crockery

on the table.

No.

No.

Peter

smashed

all the crockery. On the table. When you cast the Revealing Spell

as he ran

across it.

The table.

Peter. On the table. And they all

saw him.

Saw him.

YOU FOUND HIM! WHERE IS HE? WHERE?

'Mr. Black, please sit down.'

I shiver. Did I scream? Maybe I'm crying. I don't know. I can't stop.

_'Mr. Black!_ I must ask you to sit down _immediately!_'

I'm standing?


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer**: _Characters and universe belong to J.K. Rowling. __I make no money off them. __I just borrow them for my dreams.  
_

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**PART ONE**

**THE HEARING  
**

**TWO**

When I'm back in the chair the Aurors stand closer to me. They threatened me with the chains if I get up again without permission.

There was some uproar and someone was yelling. It may have been me. Madam Bones called a recess and the Aurors dragged me out.

But they didn't summon the Dementors. And now we are back, to the high bench and the whispers.

This time I looked round for Moony as I came in. Remus, my friend. I want to see his face, now. Look him in the eye. But I couldn't see him anywhere in the benches.

I wouldn't, if he's not in the front rows. This room is too dim.

Madam Bones stands up again. Starts to call more witnesses.

They are all from that Christmas party at the Weasleys. They all tell the same story.

I don't get every detail of what everyone is saying. My brain keeps going in and out of phase with the surroundings. But one after the other, the pieces come together. A coherent story forms in my mind.

Peter's story.

He went to live with the Wesley's as a pet rat. He made himself cute to their son Percy. Who was only five in November 1981.

1981. When it happened.

Mrs. Weasley stands and talks to the court and I get every word she says. I do remember her. Molly.

'We took him in because of that, because we couldn't afford to buy our son a proper, magical pet. He's been living in the midst of our family ever since, and never showed himself. We had no idea. Our son Percy always carried him around in his breast pocket, and when he was old enough he brought Scabbers to Hogwarts with him, too. We called him Scabbers, you see, because he did tend to get bald spots here and there – he was ever so docile as a pet, slept in Percy's bed every night and there was never any trouble – '

Slept in his bloody _bed_? You pervert! What did you think you were doing to the poor kid?

Who had to watch his pet bedfellow turn into a stinking traitor on the coffee table. On Christmas day to boot.

Must have scarred the poor kid for life.

Percy. They should give this kid all your money, as compensation. You must have accumulated a nice heap of gold over all these years, Peter, while you lived off the scraps and morsels of the Weasleys.

Mrs. Weasley is still speaking.

'We thought he was a common garden rat. It never occurred to us that –'

Of course it didn't occur to you. Who would have thought a wizard would prefer to live his life _permanently_ as a rat?

Peter.

What a lowlife scum you've become.

I don't feel guilt and remorse any more. I feel contempt, and a strong, focused anger, fierce and murderous. It surges through my veins and invigorates my spirits. I'm wide awake; I look around; I feel much stronger than my feeble, nauseous, breakable body tells me that I am.

Some kind of expert is called forward to tell us no common garden rat could ever live for as long as eight years. If the Weasleys are certain it has been the same rat all the time, it must be a wizard Animagus. There is no other possibility.

And there are no registered rat Animagus in the Ministry's records.

Hah.

Madam Bones calls Mr. Scrimgeour, Head of the Auror Department, to come forward and testify to the arrest and interrogation of Mr. Peter Pettigrew –

So they've got him here. In this building.

I look at the door. The thought does occur to me.

But it would be stupid. I won't be able to find him. They'd stun me and get the Dementors before I could even reach the door.

The head Auror confirms they were called to the Weasley's house on Christmas Day. They brought Mr. Pettigrew in and he was in a right state. Scrimgeour confirms he has since been heading the team responsible for the interrogations of said Mr. Pettigrew...

'The stories he has told us have constantly changed as he has been confronted with more facts and inconsistencies,' Scrimgeour says.

'How so?' says the grey-haired witch. 'Tell us the details, please. This is important.'

'First he denied being an Animagus at all, and said they were all lying about that rat.'

Yeah, he would, wouldn't he.

'We pressed the fact on him that he would never have survived the blasting spell of November 1st 1981 if he had been in human form when it hit him. That spell blew up half the street after all, and killed 12 Muggles, as is well known. Then Mr. Pettigrew started to weep and admitted to being an unregistered Animagus. We asked him why he had let everyone believe he was dead for so long, his own mother included. He said he was afraid Mr. Black would come after him and kill him if he showed up alive.'

Oh, I would if I could, Peter. I would. I may still. Don't you feel too safe from me!

'We asked him why he was afraid of someone safely put away in Azkaban. Then Mr. Pettigrew claimed he didn't know Black was incarcerated. But we asked Mr. and Mrs. Weasley about this. They claim to have discussed the alleged crimes of Mr. Black quite often among themselves. Especially during the first couple of years after the war, they say. How Black was arrested and sent to Azkaban without a trial was a frequent topic in these conversations. They also claim they often saw the pet rat in their living room after the children were put to bed. They believe it is highly unlikely that Mr. Pettigrew never overheard any of their discussions concerning Mr. Black. When confronted with these facts, Pettigrew admitted knowledge of Mr. Black's incarceration. He now claims it is the Dark side he's been hiding from. Mr. Black's friends as he calls them, the escaped Death Eaters – '

Death Eaters _my_ friends? You sorry sod of a -

'Steady, Black.'

It's the Auror to my right. Speaking as he places his heavy hand on my shoulder.

I breathe out. I didn't know I said it out aloud.

'Did you ask Mr. Pettigrew about what happened on November 1st 1981? When the 12 Muggles were killed?'

Madam Bones.

'Yes, Madam, we did. His version was not very probable, and therefore - '

'Let the Wizengamot be the judge of that. Let us hear a short summary of your interrogation.'

'Yes, Madam. Mr. Pettigrew claimed he went after Black because Black betrayed their best friends to the enemy. Then Black threw the blasting spell at him to kill him. In Mr. Pettigrew's first version of this event, he claims to have survived because he took cover down in the sewers as a rat. But his index finger and his bloodied clothes were found on the scene, indicating that the blast must have hit him somehow. When asked about this he claimed the blast did indeed hit him, but in mid-change. He claimed he shrank away to rat form before it made full impact, thus saving his life.'

'And why does the Auror Department believe this is not a very likely story?'

'It is not likely at all, Madam. The shock wave of that blast would have sent him several feet up in the air. Hitting the ground again would have caused him serious injury, rat or no. This is, after all, how the majority of the Muggles were killed. And Pettigrew claimed this terrible blast was aimed directly at him. Which means he would have felt the full impact of it. It would have hit him many times harder than it did the Muggles who were killed. Losing one finger only does not in any way fit with this version of events. We were, after all, originally satisfied that the blast had been violent enough to blow his body apart completely, and spread it in tiny bits over a vast area...'

'Did the Aurors confront him with these concerns?'

'We did. Then Mr. Pettigrew changed his story back to a more elaborated form of his first version. He claimed that he saw the spell coming and managed to change to rat form just before the blast hit. Then he changed back to human form the moment he was safe down in the sewers. He now claims he cut his index finger off himself and tossed it into the explosion crater, together with his bloodstained clothes and broken wand, before he changed to a rat again and disappeared for good...'

I don't know what to do with myself listening to this. One slimy lie after the other. My anger presses on my mind and makes my muscles jerk – I want to get at him, close my fingers around his sorry throat...

The head Auror Scrimgeour's voice is both dry and singsongy – as if he is a professor reciting a lecture he knows by heart to a class of beginner students. His words are grappling hooks in my mind. They conjure up an image of Peter that won't leave me alone.

It is Peter. And not Peter. As he was. As he is.

I see him as he was at school sometimes, as he was in the street that day, right before he blew everything up – pleading, appealing, so earnest, so – longing.

'Lily and James, Sirius! How could you!'

I shift in my chair. The Auror hand squeezes my shoulder.

No. I'm not going to jump up again, or shout. I didn't hear that voice.

Peter's not in this room. It's a memory.

It's what he shouted at me right before he threw a spell that killed twelve innocent people and framed me for his crimes.

Anyone who heard him must have believed him. So sincere, so true. He was _sobbing_.

As Scrimgeour continues to speak, I see an image of Peter with _this_ face in the midst of the suspicious Aurors. Their stern, unyielding eyes, their shotgun-fire of questions. And Peter: appealing, pleading, begging to be believed.

Believed. Loved. Cared for.

I shake my head.

We used to be friends. A long time ago.

Anger and contempt churns in my guts and shivers in my muscles. In my heart is the shadow of pity. My brain is about to dislocate from trying to make sense of the unthinkable.

Was it ever real. Did he ever mean it. Any of it?

'Did Mr. Pettigrew give you any reason for this behaviour? Maiming himself and leaving his clothes and wand behind?'

Madam Bones, calm and professional, continuing her interrogation.

'He said he wanted to convince Black that he really was dead,' Scrimgeour replies. 'He said he needed to cut off his finger because he knew Black would search the ground for traces of his body. If he hadn't found any proof of success Black would never have stopped trying to hunt Pettigrew down.'

Too true, Wormtail. Hunt you down till the end of time.

'I understand that you have now retrieved Mr. Pettigrew's old wand?'

'Yes, Madam, we have. It was found half-broken among the clothes he left behind, and given to his grieving mother. She has kept it ever since.'

Paying attention, keeping my focus, is getting more difficult now. Why is this important?

His half-broken wand?

'You have his wand with you here today?'

'Yes Madam.'

'Bring it out.'

I don't understand this. What's this fuss. What's with his wand? And why is it broken – he could never have cast that spell with a broken wand.

But they think it's important. They go through a lot of song and magic to confirm the wand is his. The head Auror produces a signed statement from Peter's mother. Then that document must undergo a massive magical inspection, too. Some of the plum-robed Big-Ws in their high benches start to discuss among themselves whether they should rather interrogate Mrs. Pettigrew in person.

The grey-haired witch states that Mrs. Pettigrew has suffered enough. There's no need to drag the poor woman down here on top of everything else.

The poor woman. Mrs. Pettigrew. She was a nervous little witch. She was always nice to us. The cake and cocoa kind of nice. Said she was so glad to know we would always look out for her son.

I always looked out for her son. I stepped in front of him whenever he needed it. Granted, I was sometimes the one who pushed him forward first. But I never hung him out to dry.

I don't want to see Peter's mother down here, either.

The grey-haired witch looks through the statement written by Mrs. Pettigrew and nods.

'States very clearly that the wand has never been repaired or used since Mrs. Pettigrew had it back from the Ministry in 1981,' she says.

She looks down at me, then at the Aurors behind and next to me.

'I think,' she says, and now there is a grave tone to her voice, 'the time has come to bring Mr. Pettigrew himself before the Wizengamot.'


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **_Universe and characters belong to J.K. Rowling. I make no money off them. I just borrow them for my dreams._

* * *

**PART ONE**

**THE HEARING  
**

**THREE**

I don't know if the buzzing sound is from the masses in the benches or from inside my agitated brain. Aurors bring him in. He walks between two of them, twitchy, stiff, an appealing grin on his face. Looking at no one.

Peter.

They stand him next to me – at a safe distance. The Aurors on both sides of me put a hand on my shoulders. One of them has his wand out. 'Don't try anything funny now, Black,' he says.

I won't get at the rat if I try. But now that I see him, I don't know that I want to try.

I want to jump him. I want instead to hear him. Let him explain and make it all come together, make sense, go away. I don't recognise him, although I do.

Shrunken, stooping. Grubby skin, puffed eyes, balding hair. He's not wringing his hands, but the way he looks, he might as well.

'Mr. Pettigrew,' says Madam Bones. 'You are brought before the Wizengamot solely as a witness. For now. You may, however, be charged later for some of the events discussed here today. So I will warn you to watch very carefully what you say and do in this court. It will all be recorded by the court scribes, and may later be given in evidence.

'Now. Mr Scrimgeour, the head of the Auror Department, has just given us a summary of their recent interrogations of you. The Wizengamot has also received a written transcript of these interrogations. It transpires that you, Mr. Peter Pettigrew, claim it was Mr. Black who cast the spell on the first of November, 1981, that blew up a Muggle street and killed twelve Muggle bystanders. Is that correct?'

'Why – yes, yes, of course – he tried to kill me, Sirius - he – he - '

I stare at him. Glare. His voice is high-pitched and squeaky. Not recognisable. Not the voice of my friend.

Fake.

That's not the way you used to speak.

Our eyes meet. I see you there. For a moment there is a ghost of my old friend in your eyes. And a stab of grief in my heart.

An echo of the true grief I see surface for a second in your eyes when you look at me.

Not an appeal. Not an excuse. A recognition.

You look me in the eye and recognise what you've lost.

Yes, my old friend. You've lost it. You look away, down at your feet, and there's no repair. No turning back.

You will never be forgiven.

My lungs work hard to breathe; my muscles no longer shiver. They've given in to an uncontrollable shaking. I can't stop it.

But I don't pounce. I don't faint. I listen. I am not going to miss one single word of what you say, or of what is said to you.

'Miss Ackerley, show Mr. Pettigrew the wand,' says Madam Bones.

The half-broken wand they claim is his now rests on a simple, black pillow in front of the young witch. She gets up and carries the pillow with the wand to Peter.

She stops just a few steps away from him and holds the pillow up for him to see. But when he puts out a hand to touch the wand, one of the Aurors next to him speaks up.

'No touching.'

Peter's hand falls limply back down.

'Is this your wand?' Madam Bones asks, her voice always the same: deep, carrying, serious and official.

'I-I- yes, I suppose, but - '

'You recognise this wand as yours?'

'Why – yes, I – yes, but –'

'Let the records show that Mr. Pettigrew recognises the wand collected from Mrs. Pettigrew as his own. Why is the wand broken?'

'I – the – the blast – I suppose. I dropped it when I changed, and then – things you hold will fall out of your hands when you change to your animal form – I'm – I'm sure you can find an expert on Animagi to confirm – '

'I see. I will now call Mr. Ollivander to come forward.'

I don't understand. What the hell do you think you're driving at witch! Why do you drag him down here to ask him about his broken wand and not his bloody treason?

Ollivander – the wand maker?

I'm tired; there's a ringing in my ears and my heart is going funny. It's starting to have bouts of skipping and fluttering instead of a steady beat.

It is the wand maker. I recognise him.

He and Madam Bones discuss what the wand is made of and whether or not it may be repaired. I can't muster the energy to follow. I don't get their game. I wish I could change and rest for a few minutes in Padfoot's simpler mind.

Peter has gone white. He's not just awkward anymore, guilty-looking. He's terrified.

Why? What's happening?

Ollivander lifts Peter's wand up from the pillow. He examines it, strokes it, taps it with his own wand and murmurs inaudible spells. The broken wand smoothly straightens up and gives out a small, blue spark. Ollivander carefully places it back on its pillow.

So the man is a world famous wand maker and knows his stuff. He can heal any wand if it's not entirely broken. And the point is?

'Thank you, Mr. Ollivander,' says Madam Bones. 'I will ask you to wait a few moments before you resume your seat. The Wizengamot has one more service it wishes to ask from you. But first – Mr. Pettigrew.'

Peter flinches, as if she just flicked a whip at him.

'You have given several versions of events to the Aurors. If I understand it correctly, the version you now claim to be true implies that the last spell cast with this wand was a spell to sever your index finger from your right hand. Is this correct?'

Peter twitches around his nose and mouth when he gets nervous. But I've never seen it this violent. His lower face looks like he's having a seizure.

Madam Bones does not comment on his tics. She repeats her question.

'Is that correct, Mr. Pettigrew?'

'I – I don't remember – it was all so confusing – '

Bollocks. Of course you remember. The last spell you made was the killing blast.

I could have told them. But they're not going to ask me. The mad killer of Azkaban, the right hand of Darkness. Voldemort's faithful servant.

'I see. Mr. Ollivander – will you please explain to the court the principles and effect of the Priori Incantatem?'

There's a loud squeak, starting as a man's, ending as a rat's. People scream in the benches.

He's changing! He's bloody changing! He's trying to bolt!

The Aurors push me down again hard before I'm even half way out of my seat. They don't need me. They were on to him already, had him at wandpoint.

Wormtail is stunned and lifted up by his tail for the court to see.

Madam Bones sternly calls the room to order. Only when she threatens to empty the spectator benches does the room quiet down to suppressed whispers.

The Aurors conjure up a man-sized cage of a tightly woven, metal net. They drop Wormtail into it and put on a roof. Then he is Revealed and Rennervated.

And now Peter weeps.

'Well!' Madam Bones declares. 'A stunt like that will not help your later case, I am sure! I will again implore you to remember that although you are here today in the capacity of a witness, everything you say and do is duly noted by the court scribes for the records of the Wizengamot. These records may freely be given as evidence in any later case against you.'

She lets out a small sigh and pulls briefly at the front of her robes, as if to correct them. But then she turns to the wand maker, and her voice is exactly the same as before.

You will need more than rat antics to throw this woman, Peter.

'Mr. Ollivander,' she says. 'The Priori Incantatem. Will you please explain this spell to the court.'

'It is a spell often used in court and in criminal investigations,' Ollivander begins.

It's like he's putting on a show and enjoying it. They've been rehearsing this.

My brain's too slow. I can't piece it together. But as Ollivander gives his lecture on the principles and effects of Priori Incantatem, my jerky heart starts to hammer out an irregular, thunderous beat in my chest. I feel the pulse in my temples and hear it in my ears.

'Please demonstrate,' says Madam Bones.

The young witch holds the pillow with his wand out in front of her. Ollivander places the tip of his own wand against Peter's.

'_Prior Incantato,_' he says, his voice very slow and clear.

A blinding flash of ghost-white light erupts from the tip of Peter's wand. A muffled blast echoes around the walls, followed by thin screams of horror. Then laughter. Insane, unhinged, incredulous laughter.

My laughter.

It fades away and for the first time since I was brought down here, there is total silence in the courtroom. Then the yellowish ghost of a small finger comes creeping out of the tip of Peter's wand. Brownish liquid drips from its thick end. It falls down from the black pillow and vanishes on its way to the floor.

'I think this will do,' says Madam Bones. 'Mr. Ollivander?'

The wand maker looks up with a satisfied smile.

'_Deletrius'_ he says and lifts his wand away from the wand on the pillow.

'Thank you. You may step down,' Madam Bones says.

Inside his cage Peter whimpers. A small, desolate whimper.

'Let the records show that a Priori Incantatem performed on Mr. Pettigrew's wand, found on the site where twelve Muggles were killed on November 1st 1981, clearly revealed to this court that the last spell cast with his wand was a powerful blasting spell. Also, that this same wand was used to cut off a finger _before_ the blasting spell was cast. Do you wish to comment on this demonstration, Mr. Pettigrew?'

'He – he used my wand! T-to trick everybody – that's – that's why I had to try and break it b-before I – '

'I see,' says Madam Bones. 'You claim Mr. Black took your wand, cut off your index finger with it and _then_ cast the killing blast against you with your own wand?'

'Yes! Yes! That's exactly what I – '

'Mr. Pettigrew. I must remind you that this is not the version of events you have given to the Aurors. In fact, you seem to have changed your explanations – Miss Ackerley, how many times does your record show that Mr. Pettigrew has changed his explanations?'

The young witch has gone back to her place at the far end of the front bench. Now she stands up, holding a long roll of parchment before her.

'Let me see,' she says, a hint of eagerness in her voice. 'Denying he is an Animagus, claiming to hide as Animagus for fear of Mr. Black, claiming to hide as Animagus for fear of the Death Eaters, seeking cover in the sewers before the blast, being hit by the blast in mid-change, changing before the blast and cutting his finger off down in the sewers, getting his wand broken as a result of the blast, and now this last version: having his wand taken from him by Mr. Black, but yet trying to break it himself – eight times.'

'Eight times,' Madam Bones repeats. There's scattered laughter in the benches. 'Thank you Miss Ackerley.'

'It's him!' Peter shrieks inside his cage. 'It's him – Sirius Black – he was the Secret Keeper! _He_ betrayed the Potters, he was the Dark Lord's most favoured servant! He threw confusion over me together with his spells, that's why my explanations will always be mixed up – he's got Dark powers the rest of us can only dream of! He's the one! He's the traitor!'

I can't help it. I spit out: 'Liar!'

But no one seems to react to that or even to hear it. The Aurors next to me do not move. Madam Bones addresses Peter, not me.

'Mr. Pettigrew. For your own good, I advise you to be silent in order not to incriminate yourself. You should consult experts in Wizarding law and see to it that you are duly represented before you explain yourself any further to this court.

'Your service as a witness is no longer required. But you are still under arrest. You will be tried before the Wizengamot as soon as the Aurors conclude their investigations and prepare the charges against you. Then you will be granted the opportunity to seek representation and call witnesses in your defense. But until that time –

'In light of your attempt to flee today, I am sorry to say I must advise the Aurors to keep you safely caged at all times. Aurors – please remove the witness from this courtroom with all the necessary caution. Mr. Pettigrew must not be given any opportunity to escape justice. Thank you.'

They take you away and I feel nothing.

I watch the scene as if it doesn't concern me at all, as if it is only a bad performance by third-rate actors in a stupid play of no consequence.

I hear your subdued whimpers but can hardly see you behind the thick-woven metal nets. They control your cage with their wands; make it hover a few inches above the floor, then glides it out through the door in the corner with you inside it. There's clapping in the benches.

My body feels. My head pounds and my limbs are too heavy to even shiver – they only give sudden, awkward jerks that makes the chair hurt against my bones. I don't know how much longer I can keep it together.

'Mr. Black,' says the relentless Madam Bones.

I look at the witch with her gray hair and monocle. Peter is gone. What does she want from me?

'It has now been clearly demonstrated to this court that on November 1st 1981, the 12 Muggles were killed by Mr. Pettigrew's wand. Not yours. Did you use Mr. Pettigrew's wand to cast that blasting spell?'

'No.'

She doesn't comment. She just nods.

'I would like to hear your version of what happened on that day, Mr. Black,' she says.

My version. Of that day.

That day.

I stare at her. Black specks dance in front of my eyes. I hear my godson sob and wail for his dead parents.

James and Lily. Dead. James' son. Alone.

Harry.

'Where's Harry?' I hear myself say. 'Who's keeping him safe?'

'Do you need a break, Mr. Black?'

'Mr. Black?'

* * *

Did I pass out? Did I lie down for a while?

Someone stands over me and feeds me more of that bitter, chocolate-tasting potion. My head clears and the witch with the potion leaves the room.

I still sit in front of the Wizengamot. But the chair is different. It's no longer the hard chair with the golden chains. It's a soft armchair, cushioning even my back.

Madam Bones is still standing in the highest bench, looking down at me through her serious monocle. Dumbledore is still sitting right next to her. Aurors stand around me as before.

'Are you with us again, Mr. Black?' Madam Bones says in her deep, carrying voice.

I look at her and give her the hint of a nod.

'We will make this as short as possible, appreciating your fragile condition after all your years of Dementor exposure,' she says. 'But before we reach our decision concerning the charges against you, we need to shed a light on a few more unclear points.'

Appreciating my fragile condition. Somewhere inside of me there's a small, sarcastic laugh, not strong enough to come out loud.

It was you lot who put me in front of those Dementors, remember?

Yes. I used to laugh like that once.

'At the time of your arrest, Mr. Dumbledore testified that you, Sirius Orion Black, were the Secret Keeper of James and Lily Potter's hiding place. Is that correct, Mr. Black? Were you the Secret Keeper of the Potter's hiding place?'

'Yes.'

'The Fidelius Charm makes it impossible for anyone but the Keeper to reveal the secret in question. You claim that you never gave away the secret of the Potter's hiding place to the enemy. And yet the enemy found them. How do you explain this, Mr. Black?'

'We switched.'

The Healer's potion do not lessen the pain. If anything, it makes it keener.

_I as good as killed them_.

It was my fault. I persuaded them to trust the traitor.

'You switched? Please elaborate Mr. Black.'

I say it out aloud, before I'm aware of doing it:

'It was my fault. I persuaded them to trust the traitor.'

'Trust who?'

'Peter.'

'Mr. Pettigrew?'

'Yes.'

'So when you say you switched, you mean you switched the position of Secret Keeper from yourself to someone else?'

'Yes.'

'Please state it clearly for the record, Mr. Black – who did the Potters take as their new Secret Keeper after you?'

'Peter. Mr. Pettigrew. The rat. He was the traitor. The spy. And I shall never forgive myself for persuading James and Lily to trust him instead of me. I as good as killed them.'

People gasp and whisper and murmur in the benches while I speak. Madam Bones and I look at each other. She gives me a series of very small nods.

And then I tell her. Her and Dumbledore and the rest of the purple robes, and the whole ruddy spectator monster in the benches. The story of the switch. Our clever, double bluff, to make James and Lily and Harry safe forever.

Except he was a traitor. Peter was the filthy traitor.

'I see,' Madam Bones says when I'm finished. 'So on the next day, the first of November 1981 – '

'I went after him. Yes. Not him after me. When I saw their broken house and – I knew what he'd done. I went after him. But he outsmarted me. He cut his finger off and threw that blasting spell behind his back while he was accusing me – to make sure there would be witnesses. Then he escaped down the sewers as a rat and I knew you would never find him. No one would ever know we had switched.'

'I see,' she says again.

There's a pause. The surge of energy ignited by the thrill of telling is leaving my veins. My body shivers.

I'm so cold. Not the Dementor cold, not the fog. This cold is mine, and real. My bones are aching.

They are dead and it's all my fault.

I long to change. Padfoot may be able to suffer the pain. Just take me out of here and leave me.

'I have no more questions for you, Mr. Black,' Madam Bones finally says. 'Does anyone else have any questions they would like to ask Mr. Black?'

She looks round at the other members of the Wizengamot.

No one speaks in the high benches. They all look down at me.

The spectators on the other hand are having a field day. Speaking to each other, gaping at me, some even pointing, as if they just now discovered me sitting here. Madam Bones raps the bench in front of her.

'Silence!' she demands

The sound from the yakking spectators slowly dies down.

'Does anyone need time to deliberate the evidence presented?' Madam Bones says.

The purple-robes are silent.

'Very well. The Wizengamot will now decide wether the evidence against Mr. Black is strong enough to warrant a trial. To make it clear, we will vote over one charge at a time. Regarding the charge against Sirius Orion Black for being a spy in the employ of Lord Voldemort, those who deem the evidence strong enough to warrant a trial, raise a hand.'

Nobody moves.

'Those who deem the evidence too _weak_ to warrant a trial, raise a hand.'

All the purple robes in the high benches raise their hands.

'Regarding the charge against Sirius Orion Black for revealing the hiding place of James and Lily Potter to the enemy, those who deem the evidence strong enough to warrant a trial, raise a hand.'

Nobody moves.

'Those who deem the evidence too _weak_ to warrant a trial, raise a hand.'

All the purple robes in the high benches raise their hands.

'Regarding the charge against Sirius Orion Black for killing 12 Muggles with one blasting spell on November the 12th 1981, those who deem the evidence strong enough to warrant a trial, raise a hand.'

Nobody moves.

'Those who deem the evidence too _weak_ to warrant a trial, raise a hand.'

All the purple robes in the high benches raise their hands.

The spectators in the benches clap their hands. Someone shouts: Bravo!

Madam Bones clears her throat.

'Let the record show that the vote was unanimous,' she says. 'The Wizengamot do not consider the evidence against Mr. Black strong enough to warrant a trial. The charges against him are therefore not upheld and there is no reason for his continued arrest. By this verdict the Wizengamot is adjourned.'

The room is in uproar. People pour out of the benches and down on the floor towards me. There's a series of lights flashing in my face. 'Mr. Black, Mr. Black, look here, over here!' someone shouts. 'Mr. Black, a comment please, how do you feel now that – '

'He doesn't need this,' one of the Aurors next to me says.

'The side door,' says one of the others.

They help me up and take me out through the side door, fending off the spectators. I am limp and shivering in their hands.

Is it over? Will they call the Dementors now, to come and take me back to my cell?

'He needs medical attention,' I hear someone say.

* * *

They brought me to St. Mungo's. The Healers gave me a strong Sleeping Potion that put me under for the rest of the day and the night as well. It took a couple of patient Mediwitches the best of their morning shift to get this simple fact into my demented brain. I think I ranted and babbled quite a bit before it dawned on me where I am.

I don't want to remember too much of that scene.

The Mediwitches negotiated a couple more of their bitter, chocolate-tasting potions into my mouth. Then a Healer was called.

The best thing that Healer did was fix my teeth. He told me there's nothing the matter with the rest of my body that proper rest and nourishment can't heal. As for my mind –

He claimed he has never seen anyone with my amount of Dementor exposure. Sounded like he thinks I should have turned mad a long time ago.

Looked at me like he thinks I maybe have.

Chocolate is good, he said. But the important thing is to think a lot of happy thoughts.

Yeah. He said that. Think a lot of happy thoughts. I didn't ask him if he had any to prescribe. Didn't think of that line until after he had left.

As sarcastic lines go, it's pretty lame. Too bitter. But I wish I had thought of it before it was too late not to use it.

Now I sit alone in the cushioned chair of a small, well aired bedroom at St. Mungo's. I've been given a proper, warm bath, a professional shave and haircut and a set of soft, grey robes they even bothered to fit to my skeleton frame.

I sip at what they told me is a nourishing draught. I have no happy thoughts to think.

I will not be given a proper trial. I will not be sent back to Azkaban. That's what the whole show yesterday was about. It took them a while to get this simple fact into my demented brain as well.

One of the Mediwitches brought me this morning's issue of the Prophet. But one look at their front page was enough.

I really do look like a ghost.

There's a lot of flowers in my room. They tell me legions of visitors have asked to see me already. Most of them with names I don't even remember. But I don't want to see anybody.

That's fine with the staff of St. Mungos. They'll stop anybody at their doors. My guess is they would enjoy any old opportunity to be scary to visitors. That's what I get from the looks on their faces when they promise me I won't be disturbed for as long as I'm here.

But I won't stay here for long. If I _am_ a free man – and that's what they tell me I am – this is not the place to be. Even if I have no reason to go anywhere else.

James is dead. Lily is dead. It's my fault Harry's an orphan.

Harry.

Harry in Hagrid's arms. Sobbing and stretching his small arms towards me.

Because he knew me. His godfather. He didn't know Hagrid.

Hagrid wouldn't let me have him. Dumbledore had given his orders. Harry was to be placed with his aunt, Lily's sister.

Harry. I see him in my mind as he was that day. Still wailing and stretching his arms towards me as Hagrid took off on my motorbike.

Harry. James' son. My godson.

I will go and find Harry.

'Mr. Black?'

One of the Mediwitches pops her head around the frame of the door.

'There's a visitor at the reception – calls himself Remus Lupin. He's pretty insistent you would make an exception for him if you were told he is here. Making a bit of a fuss, so I thought it would be simpler to just go and ask you and then tell him you said no – '

Remus.

Moony.

Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs.

That was a long time ago. In another life, at a school.

But I want to remember them.

Prongs is dead because we never understood Wormtail could best us all.

Moony, Padfoot.

They're gone, too.

Remus, Sirius.

I look at the witch by the door.

'I'll tell him you don't want to see him,' she says, turning to leave.

'No,' I say at the back of her head. 'I'll see him. Tell him he's welcome.'

When he comes he stops at the door. I get out of the chair. We look at each other.

I know I look like a ghost. He looks like an aging wizard, already grey in the hair and lined in the face.

Then he crosses the floor and embraces me like a brother.

* * *

**A/N:** I know this story robs Sirius of some of his thunder: the amazing, unique ability to break out of Azkaban on his own. Sorry, Sirius! But it was too tempting to write. Both to investigate the effect of prolonged Dementor torture, the weird 'justice' of the Wizards, and how Sirius would react to this kind of hearing. Plus there is a plot simmering at the back burner of my mind, involving a fully free, mature and commanding Sirius as Harry's _accepted_ legal guardian. If I ever get down to write that story, this will be the start of it. (I promise that if I do, I will give you some of your thunder back, Sirius!) But I don't know if I ever will. There's 'The Toll of War' that wants to be finished, there's my original writing, and there's life...

**A/N Updated: **I have now decided to continue this story - at least give it a few more chapters, to explore how Sirius manages his life as a free man, and what happens when he finally meets Harry. I'm not making any promises as to how far into their future I will take it, though!

So, if you liked it, you may now continue to chapter four...


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: **_Universe and characters belong to J.K. Rowling. I make no money off them. I just borrow them for my dreams_

* * *

**PART TWO**

**PASSION AND PURPOSE  
**

**FOUR**

I wake up to another bleak morning, stiff and awkward and tired to the bone.

Remus took me home. The Azkaban healers tried to convince me I was too weak and ought to stay for at least another week. But we didn't listen to them. So they pressed a weeks supply of their chocolatey anti-Dementor potion on us and let us go.

The moment I was under Remus' roof, I changed. I finally, finally got to change. I curled up on top of his bed and instantly went to sleep.

And that's about all I've been doing since I arrived here. Sleeping.

And yet I'm tired...

Remus is not here. I get up as a man and stagger into his tiny kitchen. I put the kettle on and stand supporting my body with my hands against the sink while waiting for the water to boil. I don't have a wand; I can't speed up the process.

It's rusty and old. The sink. The wall above it has cracks in its faded paint.

I push myself away from the sink and look around me. Taking in my surroundings for the first time since I came here.

Remus' kitchen is very clean. But shabby. Very shabby.

The old fashioned linoleum on the floor is curling up at the corners and worn down to holes in front of the fire place and the sink. Fixtures and equipment look like they've been retrieved from an ancient garbage dump.

I leave the kitchen to inspect the rest of his place. It's only the sitting room and a tiny bathroom. The sitting room has a shower cabin cramped into one of its corners.

Sofa bed, an armchair, a small desk cluttered with papers and books. A shabby old office chair in front of the desk. An old fashioned, four-legged, wood burning stove. A blanket in a heap on the floor, covered in dog hairs.

My hairs.

Everything is the same as in the kitchen: cracked, worn, threadbare, sparse. But clean. Very clean.

When the water boils I find a box of tea bags on the mantelpiece above the fireplace and a mug in the cupboard above the sink. I pour the water over the bag in the mug, then discover there's no milk in the tiny fridge. A vague memory appears in my mind: me standing as a dog over a bowl of milk and lapping it up.

It makes me shudder. Of shame.

I take my cuppa outside. I stand in his garden and sip and think.

Remus' house stands in a hill above a small village. It's too miniscule to be called a cottage. It looks more like an expanded garden shed. To its right lies a grassy mound with an iron door. Must be the cellar Remus described in court, where he locks himself away every full moon. At least the scenery is nice.

Open fields, thickets of trees, a river in the distance. Crows fly over my head and the wind brings smells of burning wood. There's sleet on the ground; the sky is tall and blue and the wind is cold.

I like the cold. Makes my mind crisp.

'Unemployed,' Madam Bones made Remus stand and say for the world to hear in courtroom number ten.

My friend is poor. I can't keep living off him.

I could hunt as Padfoot. Voles, rabbits, an occasional bird. Roam the unlimited space under the stars. No staleness, no prison cell. The easier life of the dog: less nightmares, fewer memories. Less guilt.

That's all I've been doing since I left St. Mungos. Rested from pain in the dog's mind. Fattened up on the scraps from Remus' meager table.

But I'm not a dog.

I go inside to place my cup in the sink and notice the heap of old Prophets next to the stove in the sitting room. Browse up on the news – that's a place to start.

I sit down in the armchair and start leafing through the papers. They're all filled with photos of me. Not only the ghostlike photos from the trial – they've dug up old family snapshots, pictures from school, James' wedding...

James and Lily, young and happy. Dead and left me and it's all my fault -

No. Don't change. Shake it off. Go back to the papers. Sample some of their articles.

They're sickening. Nothing to do with me. The Prophet reporters have made up their own fairy tale version of me, with nothing in common with me but my name.

Pure crap. All of it. And the way they attack Remus!

They make him seem worse than shit. A Dark Creature who befriended the naive little school boy Peter, and seduced said little naive boy to take his first steps down the Dark road that led him into the arms of You-Know-Who. As if it was all Moony's fault.

Fucking, lying bastards.

Someone called Rita Skeeter is the worst. What could possibly have been a _werewolf's_ motive for getting Black out of Azkaban, she asks her concerned readers. Can we believe a werewolf has the capacity for altruism? For compassion? An appreciation of normal decency and the duties of a good citizen? Mr. Lupin knew all along that Mr. Pettigrew was a rat Animagus. Yet he waited _eight long years_ before he chose to come forward...

The werewolf and Mr. Pettigrew are obviously no longer friends, she writes. Why else would the werewolf have turned the rat in? But wolves want a pack. Black's release from Azkaban means that yet another of his old school mates has landed in the clutches of the werewolf...

Skeeter goes on to insinuate that Remus abducted me from St. Mungo's: _Mr. Black left against St. __Mungo's advice. He seemed very passive and it was the werewolf who did all the talking_. Quote some unnamed Mediwitch or other. I would have been in a state of confusion and impaired judgement after my long spell in Azkaban, writes the concerned Skeeter, and quotes renowned healer Mrs. Dulcibella Appleby on the effect of prolonged Dementor exposure...

She even has the cheek to scold the healers of St. Mungo's for not protecting me better.

I can't take any more of this. I throw the paper away and pace the narrow room in want of the Skeeter woman to punch. Or throttle.

They were _here_, too. The reporters. I remember it now: People at Remus' door and me inside Padfoot's mind, smelling their ruthless eager and Remus' nervous defense. But what did I do to help him? As soon as the scoundrels had left, I went back to sleep and forgot all about it...

I'm a burden to my old friend. He's put his whole life on the line for me, exposed himself and his dangerous secret to a greedy world that has chewed him up and spat him out and dragged the pieces through the mud – and what have I done for him in return? Crowded his house to sleep and eat as a dog. Because I haven't had the guts to face my grief-filled, guilt-ridden freedom as a man.

This can't go on. This has to stop.

I don't read anymore. I don't go back to sleep. I spend the day on the hunt.

I stretch out my four legs in the run. I bound across the fields, along the cold river, over the hills, under the fences of the farms. My muscles work; my lungs soak up the free air; I run; I run. No walls, no limits; in the world, in my mind.

Remus is the one who has lived off _my_ scraps. I'm not a skeleton any more.

I follow the scent of a deer for a long stretch, but when I catch up with him I don't strike. I follow the white gleam of his tail through the trees, then veer off and run up the highest hill to sit on top of the world and take it all in.

I feel strong and free and ravished on my way back. I smell up a den of young mice and revel in piping scratches, crunching bones, warm blood and meat. The guilt-free feast of the dog.

When Remus comes home in the evening, there's a cone hanging on the wall outside for him. He can easily skin it and cook it with his wand.

'I don't need any. I've fed earlier,' I tell him.

I don't ask him where he's been all day and he doesn't say. He sits down in his armchair to eat his rabbit stew, and I sit down as Sirius the man on his office chair, to swing it slightly to and fro and watch him as he eats. He looks half embarrassed and I think I know why. I don't ask or comment.

'I need a wand,' I throw out at a random point in our silence. 'I wonder if I still have access to my vault at Gringotts? Or maybe the Ministry confiscated it all when they snapped my old wand in two. What do you think?'

Remus frowns.

'I don't know really – I don't know what their rules are. But I've heard of people who've had to start from scratch after doing time in Azkaban. '

'Confiscated, then. Feared as much.'

'I would have checked if I were you. It probably depends on the crime, too, and -'

'Yeah. Mass murder and high treason. That should have moved them to leave my money alone.'

'But you were never convicted. You never had a trial. I suspect the goblins won't accept anything less than that when it comes to the confiscation of the fortunes in their vaults.'

Sounds reasonable. I wonder how much I have left in my vault? Should be enough for a wand. But the mere thought of Diagon Alley – all the people in the street – goggling me like the spectators at the hearing –

I can't feed on mice for the rest of my life. I need to become a wizard again. I need a wand.

'If the Ministry took your money, you could probably sue to get it back,' Remus says. 'No matter what, you shouldn't have any problems finding a well paid job.'

There's a certain dryness in his voice. He nods to the newspapers I've again stacked in a heap next to the stove.

'You're hailed as a saint in there. People will form a line to hire you.'

'How long did they bother you?' I ask.

'Oh, they gave up after a couple of weeks.'

'While all I did was sleeping – you should have woken me up and let me at them! I could have told them a thing or two about this _abduction_ – about true friendship and loyalty – seems like I need to pay the Prophet a visit soon!'

'Don't bother, Sirius. Please. They finally believed me when I said I had no idea where you had gone. They weren't interested in the sleepy mutt by the stove. It's alright, it's about to quiet down now. You're old news and so am I. Don't make it start all over again.'

'Old news - how long exactly have I been here?'

'Umm – five weeks? Six maybe.'

'I'm sorry, Remus.'

'Sorry? What for? Because snakes like that Skeeter woman keep spreading their venom all over the place? That's hardly your fault.'

'I've been a burden to you for far too long.'

Remus shrugs and looks away.

'You're not a burden. You're my friend. Plus I owe you. Everything. All these years I believed your enemies. I cursed your name, in public, too. But I should have known _you_ would never turn Dark. _You_ would never betray James and Lily. You would sooner have died. I'm the one who should say sorry.'

'Let's both say sorry then. I believed _you_ were the traitor.'

Now Remus looks directly at me. I recognise my old friend in his smile.

'OK,' he says. 'I'll forgive you if you forgive me.'

'Deal.'

I don't feel like grinning, but I do. To comfort him.

* * *

Remus is not connected to the Floo, so I will have to Apparate to get myself anywhere. One of the few things I can do without a wand. The first time I try I'm convinced I won't be able to do it. It's been too long since I've used my powers for anything but the change.

But of course I can do it. I step into the turn outside and reappear sitting in the armchair inside. I neither splinch nor fall down where I started.

I _am_ a wizard. It's not a dream from another life.

Remus has left to wherever he goes during the day. In pursuit of work, I suppose. I still don't ask. I pull on an old, too short cloak I find behind the door, hide my head in its hood and wrap a woolen muffler around my neck and chin. It's still early in the day. When I Apparate into Diagon Alley, right in front of the Gringotts entrance, the cold street is almost deserted. No one seems to recognise me, or bother to look at me twice.

The insides of Gringotts are almost empty as well. And the goblins don't care who anyone is, as long as they have lawful access to one of their vaults.

I do. Nothing is confiscated. When they tell me I also have access to the Black family vault since the death of my mother and do I wish to see that as well, I have to ask permission to sit down on one of their high stools for a few moments.

Dead. My father, my brother and now my mother, too. Who will I be when I no longer have her to despise or defy?

The goblins begin to show signs of irritation. They don't entertain; they do business. If I want to have a breakdown, can I kindly take it somewhere else?

They don't say it. That would be below them. But it is what they think. I see it in the glances they give each other. I could have used a glass of water, but I don't ask. I get up to check the Black family vault.

It's larger than I thought, and filled up with gold and jewels and heirlooms. I can't bring myself to touch any of it. I go back to my own small hole, to collect what is left of my uncle's money. It's no more than the pockets of Remus' coat can hold. But about half of it is gold. It will do.

Ollivander comes streaming towards me as soon as I take off my muffler and stroke back my hood inside his shop. I'm his only costumer and he beams at my face as if it belonged to his long lost son. Luckily he stops advancing right before I take a backward step. I don't want to start off rude.

'Mr. Black!' he exclaims, 'I've been expecting you – thought you would maybe have come sooner, but here you are, here you are... We'll soon find you a wand, in any way as good as the one you had – what a shame you had it broken for no good reason – a shame, I say...'

He produces a chair and offers me tea. He flits around his walls, pulls out his drawers, mutters and pucks and casts constant glances in my direction.

But he's good. Of course he's good. He's the world famous wand maker; he remembers my last one and mutters under his breath: 'No good to go for that sort now, no, no – changed fate, different challenges – but _here_, here we are I think – here, Mr. Black, try this!'

I see at once it's a good one. Slender and springy, yet steady and firm, a fine balance in my hand. I flick it and produce a red tulip for Ollivander, who chuckles and accepts the gesture with a deep bow.

'Very good, sir, very good,' he says. 'It seems to suit you perfectly. Elder and dragon heartstring, a very powerful combination. Good for defense work, too. Let's hope you won't need too much of that in future!'

Standing in the street with a wand in my pocket, I can't decide what to do next. I ought to visit Madam Malkins. All I have to wear is the robe from St. Mungo's and Remus' old cloak.

But it's no longer early. The shoppers have begun to fill up the Alley and I feel exposed. I can't bear the thought of standing on a stool to be touched and measured. Pretend I don't hear the comments on my situation the good madam will be sure to offer. A few of the costumers in the Alley are eyeing me already. Besides, I would probably have to go back to Gringotts – that fine wand cost me the larger part of the gold in my pockets.

But I do stop at a grocer's to get us some treats. A steak, some vegs. Fine wine, a bottle of Firewhiskey, a bag of sweets. A few basics, like flour and butter and salt. And now my money are almost out.

Back in Remus' too narrow shed I'm exhausted from exposure. I force myself to put the groceries away before I slump on the sofa bed in his sitting room. Narrow like a prison cell. My mind is clouded, my body clammy. Inside my head the sobs and wails are returning.

It's only a memory. The Dementors are not here. Don't need to change. Don't want to touch the whiskey till Remus comes home. Just a little sleep. Sleep as a man. I can do that.

I wake up to a flickering light from the stove, and Remus' hand on my shoulder.

'I've made some porridge,' my friend says, in a soft, almost apologetic voice.

I sit up with an effort.

'Well, you can put that away for tomorrow,' I say. 'I've bought some steak. Didn't you look in the fridge?'

'No, it's - '

Empty, yeah. But not anymore my friend.

'I'll cook our supper,' I say. 'Sorry I fell asleep – I meant to have it ready for you when you came home.'

I was never an expert in household spells, but I used to know the basics. I used to be able to whip up a decent meal. For some reason, everybody seemed to think I couldn't – but that was more James.

James was a celebrated catastrophe in the kitchen. Always burning things or serving them up half raw. Honestly, I think he did it on purpose. He put on the show of a goofy, charming kitchen clown, and all the girls clucked and fussed, told him off and did it for him.

I suppose they thought me guilty of the same by association. But the basic cooking spells are embarrassingly easy. Of course I master them. There's no reason why James shouldn't have, too. He was no clown with a wand.

I don't want to think about James.

Remus' cabinet of a kitchen is narrower than my prison cell. I have spells of chest contractions. But I have a wand in my hand.

My wand.

Energy and power come seeping back from the core of who I used to be. Up my spine, down my arm and out of my wand as I work it. I can look at the pan and then it's over the fire. Seconds later the butter and the chopped onion are in the pan and I can turn my attention to the meat in the fridge.

The wand and my mind are the same. I don't have to think of the spell or command my hand to move. My performance is one with my will.

It's been so many years. So long ago. But I have it. The Dementors didn't suck it out of me. I can still do this. I'm still good.

I'm close to tears. I'm glad Remus is waiting in the next room. I don't need a witness to this kind of mushiness.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: **_Universe and characters belong to J.K. Rowling. I make no money off them. I just borrow them for my dreams_

* * *

**PART TWO**

**PASSION AND PURPOSE**

**TWO**

Remus, my friend. I need that to be true. Our youth has been taken out of us and nothing is the same. What do I have if I don't have you? I might as well rot in my cell. We're the only ones left.

I sit on your sofa bed and listen to the sounds of you doing the dishes in the kitchen. You insisted on clearing away and cleaning the plates yourself, with a sort of 'at least I can contribute this much to the meal!' look on your face.

Why does it have to be this hard? I'm the one straight out of prison, with a mind still demented by Azkaban-fog. The idiot responsible for the death of my best friend. The one who failed you all. Why should you feel shamed in front of _me?_

- Remus did enjoy the meal I cooked. But he was embarrassed to show just how much. Embarrassed that I should understand just how long it's been since he last had a simple good steak.

Of course he knows I have realised how poor he is. When he stuttered his thanks for the meal and all the food he found in his cupboards, I told him to shut up and consider it rent.

He can keep me as a dog, but not as a man. That's the simple truth of it. If he goes much longer without finding work, he may not be able to feed me as a dog either. Let alone feed himself. Does he have any savings left at all?

He's my friend, not a charity project. He needs a job. Fuck the werewolf legislation and monster vultures like that Skeeter woman!

Remus comes back from the kitchen. Steak and wine and hot dishwater steam have put some colour into his face. He looks more relaxed now. He curls up in his armchair; I lounge on his sofa bed with my legs stretched out. We sip whiskey and pop sweets and the silence between us has something in it I don't want to explore.

There's no light except from the stove and a couple of charmed candles floating about in the air. The lines in Remus' face and the grey strands in his hair do not show in the glow. This is the Remus I remember. This is how we used to sit together, so many times before. Only to be disturbed by James and Peter as they come crashing through the door, boisterous and rude and annoying on purpose, scolding us for keeping all the whiskey to ourselves...

My insides jump. Somebody knocks at the door for real. Remus frowns as he gets up to answer it.

But I don't change. I'm through hiding as a dog. I'm a free man. If it's another one of those sleazy reporters, I'm going to deal with them head on. I touch the good wand in my pocket, almost hoping it's Rita Skeeter herself.

'Dumbledore!' Remus exclaims. 'Why, come in, come in – you want a whiskey in this cold weather, I'm sure – come inside!'

He steps aside and there is Dumbledore against the winter dark, with a beaming face and a large cardboard box cradled in his arms.

'My dear friend!' he exclaims as he comes forward, to place the box on the floor and extend his arms towards me. 'I can't even begin to tell you how happy I am to see you here – free at last, free of all charges and wrongful suspicions, reunited with your old friend – '

The warmth in his eyes, the genuine happiness to see me – I can't help but responding. I get up and let him take both my hands to squeeze them. Now I realise how much his aloof and professional airs at the Wizengamot hurt me.

My former headmaster and Order leader. Who chose to trust and respect me when no one else thought I was worth it. In spite of all the trouble I gave him.

Except James. No one trusted and respected me like James.

Fog seeps into my heart and the warm glow is drained from the candlelight. But I don't want to dwell on it. I try to shake it and focus instead on Dumbledore's face.

James, my brother. _How can I live it all down without you._

'I thought I shouldn't disturb you before,' Dumbledore says. 'You needed the rest away from attention, to fatten up and get your strength back, I thought. But when I heard you had been at Ollivander's today – I decided it was time I paid you a visit...'

I feel myself grinning, in spite of the fog in my heart. Trust this man to always have his spies out! Nothing will escape Dumbledore.

Remus offers him the armchair and gets him another glass from the kitchen. I pour him some Firewhiskey. Dumbledore lifts his glass in a toast.

'To old friendship,' he says.

We drink to old friendship. Then Remus and I sit down on the sofa bed together.

It's not awkward. Dumbledore sits with such ease in this humble room, and embraces us both with his full attention. Benign and friendly and full of twinkle. We talk about old times and they fill me in with news and anecdotes about old friends, from the Order and from school.

Too many now live a limited life, far below their once promise, scarred and withdrawn. Moody has retired. Spotting Death Eaters everywhere, too paranoid to be of any use. But Kingsley's still an Auror. Doing fine, Dumbledore says.

They have a lot to tell me. Eight years is a long time to be out of the loop. I try to follow; I really do. Try not to show that I can't muster the kind of interest they expect. Yes, I remember the names, the faces; I even laugh at some of the anecdotes. But they don't mean anything to me. I can't remember the friendship, can't remember how this was once important.

Azkaban took it. The Sirius who cared is no longer me.

But then Dumbledore turns to me with a more serious tone in his voice.

'I must offer my sincere thanks and gratitude for your generosity towards me,' he says. 'But of course, you were never a small-minded man.'

I don't understand what he means. Dumbledore nods.

'I see you don't even understand what I mean. That truly humbles me. But ever since Remus here found Pettigrew alive, it has gnawed on my conscience how I was so ready to accept what seemed like overwhelming evidence against you. I should have pressed harder for a trial.'

'That rat was a lot more clever than we thought. You were not the only one who was fooled,' I choose to say, hoping this will be enough to stop any further development of the topic.

I don't want to go there. I really don't.

'That's true,' Remus nods. 'I didn't care either, that Sirius never had a trial. I didn't believe it would have made even the slightest difference. I was convinced he was guilty as hell. That's how everybody felt back then. Nobody cared about a trial. We all owe you an apology, Sirius.'

'Well OK, apologies accepted,' I say. 'And now Peter gets to pay, so it's all good.'

But Dumbledore will not let the topic rest.

'I'm afraid my sin is bigger than yours, Remus,' he says. 'Because _I_ cared. Yes, the evidence against you were overwhelming, Sirius – there's no denying that. But I was worried. I thought I knew you, knew what kind of man you were. You were the _last_ on my list of suspects for the spy -'

'The first was probably me,' Remus says in a low voice, looking down at the whiskey glass in his hands.

'No – that was Peter.'

We both look at him. Dumbledore looks at me.

'I didn't see Peter as quite as – naive – as you and James maybe thought he was,' he says. 'And I knew he was the weaker character. I saw how he immediately sought out you and James as the strongest and most confident boys in Gryffindor tower. He never challenged you, always applauded you, no matter how headless or wicked your pranks might be. He was far too ready to accept the role of tag-along and mascot, as long as he could bask in a popularity he would never have achieved on his own. He was only too happy to receive your and James' unwavering loyalty and protection, even though it came with a patronising touch. It didn't bode well.'

Tag-along and mascot. That stings.

It was not like that. He had more to offer than that. He was a fountain of dreams and schemes, some of them brilliant, some of them hilarious and some just weird. He was the one who fantasised about tracking spells on professors and prefects so we could trace their movements on a map. He was the one who sniffed out most of the secret passages of the castle and showed them to us.

Silly little berks, fooling around in the playing field that Hogwarts was to us. That it also was to us. Laughing, to keep it all at bay while looking out for each other.

Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs. Always four. Not three and a tag-along.

But maybe it's true. Maybe he never crossed any lines. Maybe he never was a real friend of ours.

It's just an image from a lost dream, the four of us running carefree under the moon. I don't think it was ever wholly like that. We felt the war; we ran in its shadow. Each year looming closer, deepening all conflicts, endangering all quarrels, guaranteeing the safety of no one. Until defense and revenge pushed aside all thoughts of pranks and jokes. Until we were in it for real, fighting the war to end all wars, and we thought that we were losing...

Dumbledore is still speaking.

'I knew Peter would always be tempted to go where the power sits,' he says, 'and would not be very resistant to threats or coercion – very unlike you, Sirius. I felt certain _you_ would never cave to any kind of threat or torture. _You_ would never betray your friends. So when James and Lily were found dead and you were arrested – I was convinced you must have fallen victim to an Imperius spell. But both the Hit Squad that arrested you and Crouch who interrogated you insisted this was not the case - '

'Crouch never interrogated me. No one did.'

'I see. Crouch gave me the impression that he – said you never said anything to defend yourself, only laughed...'

'The Hit Squad threw me in one of their holding cells, and then the Dementors came. I never saw Crouch, or any other Ministry official for that matter.'

Dumbledore lifts a hand towards me, as if he wants to plead forgiveness. Or offer me comfort. Or both.

I don't want either. Leave it be. I don't need this old anger rising, these bitter memories. Give me back what the Dementors took. Talk about the good times more.

Is this why Dumbledore has come to see me? To make this confession, and beg my forgiveness? But I don't need that. Peter bested us all; end of story. Go lay it all on him.

'Aurors are of course trained to both detect and end an Imperius,' Dumbledore presses on. 'In all other cases, their word would have been enough to satisfy me. But in your case, I wanted to judge for myself. So I asked to see you. But I was denied this...'

'But – weren't you the head of the Wizengamot back then, too?' Remus asks. 'Couldn't you have just – ordered them to let you see him?'

Dumbledore sighs. The flame light from behind the glass door of the stove flickers over his face and makes it hard to read his expression. But his body posture seems sunken and sad.

'This was where I failed,' he says. 'It's not as easy as you imply – the head of the Wizengamot does not have the power to instruct the Aurors or the Head of the Law Enforcement Department on how to handle individual cases. But I was not without influence. I could have pulled some strings, stepped on a few sore toes. I'm afraid the real reason why I didn't press the issue was political...'

'Political?'

Remus sounds indignant. But my flash of anger is over and my interest is waning.

It's always politics with the Ministry. Why should my case have been any different? I don't need a lecture in Ministry politics, old or new. Can we please leave this alone?

But I don't say it. I know it won't be over till he's said what he's come to say. If he thinks it's important, Dumbledore will always get to speak his mind.

'Yes. Political,' he confirms. 'Voldemort's sudden downfall had an enormous effect on the Ministry. During his reign of terror, everybody had been united against him – well, almost. But as soon as he was gone, the Ministry fell apart in competing fractions. Millicent Bagnold had a hard time keeping it all together. She advocated forgiveness and reconciliation to heal the wounds of war, while the public was bent on punishment and revenge. There was a regular campaign to replace her with Crouch. The campaigners said Bagnold was not a legitimate Minister because she had not been appointed according to normal procedure. She had only recently been made Minister for Magic, in a time of crisis when the former Minister suddenly died -'

'Crouch,' Remus remarks, contempt dripping from his voice. 'Wasn't he the one who first recruited Dementors to be the prison guards of Azkaban? Only for the Death Eater terrorists and traitors he assured us – but we all know how that went down. And then he sent his own son to his death in their clutches! How anyone could have wanted _him_ for Minister is beyond me.'

'Oh, he is thoroughly dethroned now – but in those days, Crouch had a large following. Mostly due to his fervour in hunting down the Death Eaters. Surely Remus, you must remember the public feeling in those days? Shortly after Voldemort's fall, when so many Death Eaters were still at large, still killing and torturing people?

'But I was firmly against Crouch's candidature. I feared his rule would have been nothing short of draconic. I made no secret of this, and Crouch was very well aware of my opinion. He was also aware of the fact that another substantial fraction within the Ministry wanted _me_ to replace Millicent Bagnold. I was firmly against that, too – government is not my calling. But Crouch didn't believe that. He maintained that my clear denial of a candidature was only a show, a manipulation. Said I was instead pulling strings behind the scenes to secure support for my case...

'So – there it was. I feared that if I _did_ pull strings behind the scenes to secure you a fair trial, Sirius, I would only give Crouch more ammunition for his campaign. He would have presented it as another case of Bagnold's supposed weakness. Proof that she was a mere puppet in my hands. This might have helped him to achieve his goal and become Minister – because throwing you in Azkaban without a trial was a very popular move in those days, I'm afraid. There was an intense public hatred against you. Crouch could have arranged for a public execution, and people would have showed up in droves to cheer the executioner on...'

Remus turns to me with a pleading look.

'It's true,' he says. 'It _was_ like that back then. We didn't know. I'm so very sorry, Sirius.'

'Yeah, you told me that already,' I say, trying to keep the edge out of my voice. 'And we agreed to forgive and forget. _Each other_. Remember?'

Remus holds his breath. But then he gives me one of his old, small and knowing smiles, and a quick acknowledging glance. I give him a short grin in return.

For a moment, I recognise the Remus and Sirius that was. Moony and Padfoot. Before the suspicions. Before the spy. Before our world went under.

But Dumbledore is not finished.

'Of course, the evidence against you were overwhelming,' he says. 'So I feared my uneasiness at your arrest might only be due to my own vanity – a reluctance to admit that_ I_ had been so wrong about one of my students and handpicked Order members – I_,_ who had always prided myself on my outstanding skills in the judgement of character...

'The thought that Peter had somehow framed you _did_ occur to me. It was only that all the surviving witnesses claimed he had vanished the moment the blast hit. He could of course have Disapparated – but his finger and bloodied clothes on the scene seemed to contradict this. Of course, had I known he was a rat Animagus –'

'I knew,' Remus says, his voice very low. 'And still the thought never occurred to me that he could have framed Sirius. I was so certain Sirius had been the Secret-Keeper...'

'That was indeed the most damaging evidence. I, too, found it hard to believe they could have trusted _Peter_ with a secret of such magnitude – '

'Yeah, I fucked it up, okay?' I say, not holding any edge back now. 'We all agree on that one. Everyone did what they thought best, while Peter sat in the gutters laughing his arse off. But he's not laughing now. Now he sits in a cage in the Ministry's dungeons, crying his eyes out. And I'm not accusing anyone else, so I don't need to listen to anyone's apologies. Can we _please_ change the subject now?'

I look Dumbledore straight in the eye and I swear the man is again all twinkle.

'Point taken,' he says. 'And well put, too. I'm defending myself against my own accusations, not yours. That is very true. Like I said – you were never a small-minded man, Sirius Black. Forgive me my need to get this anvil off my chest. I'll stop dumping it on yours. Now, let's move to the real reason why I came here this evening - '

He gets up to drag closer the large cardboard box he placed on the floor the moment he came in the door. Remus and I both lean in to watch him as he puts its lid flaps back and lifts some of its content out.

A framed photograph. He hands it to me and suddenly I sit staring down at Lily on a sofa holding baby Harry in her arms. Right next to her is James, holding around her shoulders, grinning at my face.

He did grin at me. I was the one who took that photo. Baby Harry waves his arms, Lily smiles and tickles him and I hear the sobs and wails and Hagrid takes off on my motorbike...

I put the photograph down. My hand trembles and my mouth is dry. Remus sits holding another, bigger picture in both his hands.

'Where did you get hold of these?' he asks, looking up.

Dumbledore beams at us.


End file.
